


If You Can't Beat Them

by Gods_Trumpet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gods_Trumpet/pseuds/Gods_Trumpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham plays chess with himself. Or, if you can't beat them, replace them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Beat Them

**Author's Note:**

> A short affair inspired by a Twitter exchange and encouraged by my partner in crime, to whom this fic is dedicated.

His thrills had been taken in small doses at first. Dozens of tiny betrayals.

Will had begun visiting Frederick Chilton out of a lack of alternatives. That had been the first betrayal. On the drive to Baltimore, he imagined the way Hannibal’s face would twitch if he heard what Will was doing; picture the subtle pursing of his lips and childish tilt of his head. If Hannibal only knew that he had been traded out for a rat, a snake, a peacock with no plume.

Frederick had contacted him first, of course. In the hospital. He had seemed embarrassed at first to be caught asking.

“It would be mutually beneficial to resume a professional relationship,” he claimed. “I would not be opposed to seeing you on a sort of unofficial outpatient. You would visit me and we would… discuss.”

“I don’t have anything to discuss with you.”

“Not even Hannibal? This is about coping.”

Even with his mind addled with painkillers, Will could practically smell it on him, the lonely desperation of being a survivor. There was gauze tape over his left cheek. Now and then he would fidget and touch it.

“You need the company,” Will had said bluntly.

He looked at the wall across from him, not at his visitor, but he could guess his expression by the proud sputtering of breath he heard next, as Frederick tried to grasp for a retort.

“Don’t you?” he finally answered, voice scissor-clipped. “Haven’t I been the only person to see you all this time you’ve been recovering?”

This was true, of course. Will had been hoping that Alana- for she had survived- and Abigail- she as well- would contact him once they had all been released. There was no luck though, for any of them.

Abigail, for one, could not bear to see anyone. Her psyche was deteriorated. Many of the same driving tactics that had been used to warp the mind of Miriam Lass had been used on her, though more potently, and she often was confused, distressed. She called herself by the wrong names. She was kept in relative isolation for her own safety.

Alana would not speak to Will. She required a wheelchair now, her spine having broken and her hips pulverized by the fall. She said unconvincingly that she did not blame him.

When Will was at home, the walls closed in on him. His nightmares were terrible. Routines gave him no reprieve, and his home felt somehow tainted.

So he resorted to Frederick.

And it was therapeutic, reluctant as he was to admit it. They met once a week at Frederick’s stark white house, the inside recently repainted. It still felt enough like a hospital.

Frederick started by having Will reveal in explicit detail what his game had been with Hannibal. That alone had been a great betrayal. It felt wonderful. Finally, to lay someone’s shoulders with every ounce of what Hannibal had done to him, what he had done in return, with confidentiality assured him. He unloaded their private conversations to an attentive audience. Frederick was even so bold as to take notes. Hannibal would have squirmed.

“He couches himself in godhead,” Will once said to him. “In his own mind, he presides over order and chaos, and he is not bound by any convention or morality. Anything he does, is because of his own will. Because he likes it and deems it good.”

Frederick took the end of his pen out from between his teeth and hovered it over the paper. “What about in your mind? What do you think of Hannibal’s divinity?”

Smiling wryly, Will scoffed, “He’s only a man. He can be hurt.”

“There are a lot of people out there who would like to hurt him.”

“It isn’t easy,” he admitted. “But I know what would do it. I betrayed him once, when I refused to run away with him, and that hurt him more than anything else ever has. Things got messy.”

Scratching something in his notes, Frederick looked up at him from under his brows and asked, “Last time you betrayed him, you nearly got four people killed, including yourself. Would it really be worth the pain to hurt him again?”

“You sound concerned, Frederick.”

“Most people would rather just have him caught.”

“Hannibal didn’t take away their family, then.”

Having Frederick’s attention had never been so gratifying as when it was his own poor man’s substitute for Hannibal’s. He even shared Hannibal’s idolatry for Will. Frederick stared at him sometimes, forgetting his notes and himself while he looked rapturously at him. Will should have been embarrassed, but instead he basked.

He could picture Hannibal’s face closed and dark, the same brutality of anger he had seen that night. Would he kill them both for this, or only Frederick? If Hannibal were only here to have his heart torn out. The roaring, searing pain Hannibal would feel made Will breathless.

The doctor himself was not wholly intolerable. His experience had humbled him, or he now considered Will an equal rather than just a feather in his cap. If anything, he was a good listener; he knew when to allow Will to ramble, when to ask questions or pause him. It was only too bad the method by which he used the skill- if Frederick’s career hadn’t been founded on his ego, he could have made a decent therapist.

However, he was not subtle in his unprofessional intrigue. His eyes would linger too long, and his hand when they shook as he insisted doing after each session. It became a game to Will- everything he permitted Frederick was another notch, another thing that would wound Hannibal. Each time, that shiver would rise up his spine. All the satisfaction of retribution, and a foe who for once could not defeat him, for he was only an effigy to poke with pins.

Throughout all of their sessions, over the course of months, Frederick never removed the gauze he kept over the old bullet wound. Will had to wonder if this was vanity. Did he take it off to work? Could he stand to look at himself with what had to be a horrible crater scar on his face? He had grown out his beard again, presumably to draw attention away from it. Will entertained the idea that the doctor wore the bandages only for him.

It was only a matter of time before Frederick spoke of his own experience. Will had expected it; he was the only person in whom the doctor could confide, the only person whose trauma matched his own. The rarest sort of victim of Hannibal’s.

“My position,” Frederick said in a tight voice, swallowing, “has always been one of control; I’m aware enough of myself to understand that. Like many, I covet it.”

“And Hannibal rips your control away from you. That’s how he operates.”

“How he maintains control. Manipulation is an exercise in dominance, just like cannibalism.”

Will’s lips quirked up so that he was almost sneering at Frederick. “And how did it make you feel, when Hannibal extended his domination to you?”

Frederick blinked once and smiled in his snakelike way, willing to take that on the chin. Will had no shortage of commentary to make on Frederick’s fall from grace, he was sure. Exposure and equality had made their relationship almost friendly.

“It felt like everything I had made for myself had crumbled in my hands,” he admitted, crossing one leg over the other. They sat across from each other in white faux leather chairs.

“Suddenly, the world that I had carefully arranged for myself, the place in it for which I fought and scraped, had been stolen from me. Believe me, despite my unfavorable reputation, I have done my share of honest work to reach the kind of position I hold. It still confuses me how all of that- my good name, my home, my peace of mind- could be destroyed on one man’s calculated whim. And the bodies…”

Here, Frederick swallowed again, hesitated. He looked green. Whenever the subject of the gore came up, he turned squeamish.

“You know, I can still smell it sometimes, in parts of the house,” he sighed, forcing himself to sound casual. “The bodies, I mean. Not always in the kitchen, either. The smell is trapped in the walls of my memory, where I can’t repaint.”

As loathsome as Frederick was, Will understood, even sympathized. The scents of blood and raw flesh being trapped in the nostrils was a sensation to which he was accustomed from his work.

“I understand. You don’t have to talk about that.”

A few beats of quiet reigned. Will loosened his fingers, which had begun digging into the arm of the chair without his noticing.

Frederick gave him a weak, unhappy smile. “Of course you understand. That’s what you do. I have flashbacks occasionally. Very… inconvenient? Distressing? I’m not quite sure how to describe them.”

“You had never been a victim in your whole life, had you?” Will presumed, trying to gentle his voice. “Before Abel Gideon and Hannibal. It’s understandable that you’ve been so affected. One of them would be enough to damage anyone.”

Frederick didn’t answer, but stood up and straightened his jacket and held his hand out to shake.

“It’s late. I’ll see you next week.”

That day was when the touches began, fleeting, hummingbird-wing touches. Frederick, who was until then careful to maintain his own mysophobic bubble, would touch him on the shoulder, the elbow, the arm when he passed. His hands were cowardly, retreating quickly, almost as soon as he felt the denim of Will’s jacket under his fingers. No wonder he had been an embarrassing surgeon. He looked dead at Will’s mouth when he did this, or at the ground.

What a vengeance he was wreaking on Hannibal, Will thought with each thrillingly clumsy brush. He allowed roaches to infest the palace in Hannibal’s absence. They would become as intimate with its walls as its former occupant had been.

It had been a surprise when Frederick invited him to stay for dinner, so much so that he almost declined.

“Am I that interesting in conversation, Frederick?” he asked instead, letting his lips purse and his eyebrows turn upward.

“Will you stay or not?”

“That depends. Why do you want to eat with me?”

“It’s 6 in the evening and I have manners. You’re a regular guest here, and I suppose I should cherish it.” Will was looking at his lapel- Frederick always dressed nicely for their meetings- in lieu of his face, listening to his voice. His terseness hid a warble of nerves.

Will smiled, gave a single quiet puff of laughter. “Then I’ll let you play host tonight. Is this a coping thing?”

“It’s a dinner thing. Or aren’t we friends?”

In his infinite arrogance, he had already made enough food for the both of them. He had even made a non-vegetarian dish for Will, while he relegated himself to a salad.

They ate in relative silence for a while. 

“I’m prepared to be diplomatic about this,” Frederick said, swallowing a mouthful. There was visible red in his cheek and on his neck.

When Will only raised his eyebrows in response, he continued, “About this. You. You clearly have some interest in me that I really shouldn’t encourage. You’ve attached to me in the wake of a dearth of personal relationships.”

Will set down his own fork and folded his hands in front of his face to hide the smile threatening his composure. Frederick was terribly serious.

“Well, you’re the psychiatrist,” Will sighed. “I’d like to hear your theory of my interest in you. I’m clearly deflecting.”

Frederick made an unpleasant face. “I’ve heard your whole sordid history with Lecter from your own mouth, your truncated-- thing with Dr. Bloom. Your tastes seem to be in psychiatrists pathologically.”

For the first time, he began to feel remorse for playing his game for so long. Frederick was trying desperately to avoid admitting his own vulnerability, the fact that he might, god forbid, feel something. As much as he was a monolith of roachness, it seemed unfair to step on him so. But he pictured the angry tears in Hannibal’s eyes, gut wrenching pain drawn in deep maroon. Anything would be worth imagining that he could hurt him; that Hannibal was only a man.

He leaned forward in his seat, picking up the fork again and rolling it between his fingers.

“Do you object to my tastes?”

“Don’t start. It doesn’t matter how I feel personally about them. I find them unprofessional.”

Will snorted. “Unprofessional in what way? You said it yourself earlier- aren’t we friends? We don’t have a truly professional relationship anymore.” Here, he paused, stopped playing with his fork. “Much the way myself and Hannibal once did.”

He saw the way Frederick’s throat moved under his skin, swallowing on nothing.

“What would your feelings be,” he asked, leading, “if you considered yourself not to be my psychiatrist at all?”

Picking up his fork, Frederick stabbed it through a crisp lettuce leaf. “In short? Interest.”

Interest. Frederick kissed him later that evening, as he was leaving, and their lips together tasted like eating Hannibal’s heart.

If not for spiting Hannibal, Will knew he never would have gotten involved with the doctor. He was self-assured and a narcissist, attempting to breach waters that were out of his depth, a braggart and yet fickle in action. He kissed too eagerly, and when Will bit his lip he whined like a bad engine.

The clatter of Frederick’s cane knocking against the wall was what startled them apart. The tips of his fingers still touched Will’s neck, the fingers that had led them first into the kiss. Frederick looked terrified.

“I’ll see you next week,” he said weakly, before clearing his throat and repeating himself. His hand retracted. “Next week.”

Will opened the door. “I’ll expect dinner.”

Things continued in this line. They only kissed briefly, Frederick torn between throwing himself into it and backing off. Always after dinner, when Will was complacent with fullness. Frederick was hardly a chef, but his food was passable, and his company was unique. He had to admit, as company he was not as noxious as he could have been, and sometimes Will forgot that he was talking to his former warden.

Frederick hardly touched him unless encouraged, all of the bluster and hot air wheezing out of him as soon as he felt skin. Will closed his eyes so that he did not have to think about his half-friend’s terror and anticipation, or any of the other feelings the bastard could not shroud from him. 

When they first had sex, it happened with little pomp. It was so sudden, so awkward, that it hardly registered to him that this was his greatest betrayal yet. 

They had been talking, for the first time seated on the same white couch, though at opposite ends. Will had his feet up, shoes off at his host’s demand. Frederick had a glass of wine in hand that he was trying to be careful with.

“Honestly, I should have known something was wrong with him,” Frederick said, referring to Hannibal of course. Wine made him a bit flamboyant. This conversation started whenever he drank. “From the beginning, I should have known. Who dresses like that? Who dines like that? I’ve met eccentrics in my circle, but he was something else. I should have known.”

“Not even I knew until it was too late. Jack didn’t know. You couldn’t have possibly figured it out by yourself.” Will was entirely unaffected by the glass he had with dinner. The two of them were smiling bitterly, watching a silenced television with the captions on.

“Why couldn’t I? Because I don’t work for the FBI?”

“No, because the only other people who ever did find him out ended up getting caught in his web. You remember Miriam Lass. Beverly Katz.”

Frederick wrinkled his nose. “Of course. Dreadful to think about... He could have lived his whole life never getting caught if not for you.”

“Someone would have connected the dots eventually.”

“No.”

Frederick shook his head and his wine glass sloshed precariously. He turned his head to look at Will and said, “Only you could have done what you had. I suppose I’m envious.”

Will snorted and met his gaze. “Of whom? Myself or Hannibal?”

He set his glass of wine down on a short table in front of them. Slipping out of his house shoes, he crawled on his knees across the couch to where Will sat, and tentatively kissed him. Will closed his eyes, seeing the flashes of the television behind his lids. Frederick stopped after a minute and sat back on his heels. In his suit, he looked a little ridiculous.

“Of course of him,” he murmured.

He took Will by the wrist, left his cane leaning against the coffee table, and led him into the bedroom.

It wasn’t bad, the sex, but it wasn’t worth writing home about. The thrill came later, when Frederick stood by the open window in clean briefs and rumpled button-down, a lit cigarette hanging limply between his fingers and an unusually thoughtful look on his face. The light in his driveway was on, and he was illuminated in yellow against the blue darkness of the room.

The sound of light rain on the roof and in the gutters filled the empty space in the room. Will watched him, looking like a breathing painting. Objectively, he had perfect thighs. ‘I slept with him,’ came the realization, followed by the familiar warm excitement of being with the enemy of his enemy.

“I had no idea you smoked.” A shiver danced up his back. Frederick had expensive sheets, and he sat naked on top of them.

“I only do it privately. I refuse to be stereotyped as an addict. You won’t try to bring up my lung health, will you?”

Will closed his eyes and chuckled. One of his knees was pulled up to his chest. They had been all hands with one another before.

“I’m not overly concerned with your insides, Frederick.”

“So is this it?”

The gauze had been removed earlier, finally allowing Will a glimpse of the scar, mottled and dark. It wasn’t as horrible as Will had imagined. He must have had surgery. The way he stood, the scar faced away from Will; Frederick was dreadfully self-conscious about it. But it didn’t look bad.

“This?”

The ember tip of his cigarette glowed, and the part of his lips was vulnerable.

Frederick flicked his cigarette out the window into the rain. Will wondered how many cigarette butts he had thrown into the gutter.

He made an unpleasant face, a hard glower that pushed down his brows like the clouds outside. “Forget it.”

For the second time, Will regretted playing his personal game. Pity welled up in his chest. As much as he wished it not to be true, Frederick was more than the bastard who had locked him up. He was a bastard and a friend.

“Do you want me to stay the night?” he tried, as awkward as their fumbling together had been.

Frederick paused to think it over before shaking his head.

“Then I’ll see you next week.”


End file.
